The first thing Timothy Griffin saw when he woke up was fire.

    Flames grew and licked the walls of his room as if coming from hell. They spread across the carpet and consumed everything in their path, eating up the curtains and going up to the ceiling, which was beginning to peel.

    Panic seized his heart at the sound of them crackling, their heat soared his skin and smoke stung his nostrils. He held his breath as long as he could, but his urge to cough would not let him. His chest hurt, he felt like he would die at any moment.

    He ran to the door and turned the handle, but it wouldn’t open.

    “Mother, father!” he screamed in desperation as he pushed hard against the door. “Somebody! Please, someone get me out of here!”

    The fire was reaching his feet, Tim was pushing the door with his whole body while tears kept flowing down his face.

    Where were his parents? Had they really left him there to die?

    He pounded on the door once more. Strangely, the room seemed to grow increasingly dark and blurry as the fire spread. His eyes were closing, arms and legs softened as he let his body slowly fall to the ground, he no longer found the strength to stand up again.

    And then, in a lapse of consciousness, Tim remembered:

    His parents would not save him. How could they?

    His parents were dead.

   Tim got up from the bed panting, wiping the water flowing from his forehead to his hot neck. He lifted the sleeves of his pajamas to see if there were any burned scars from the fire, but there were none. He was back in his bedroom again, everything had happened only in his head.

    In fact, there was indeed a scar, the one on his right arm that had been there for years, sometimes he could almost forget it existed, but it was always there.

    And that one was very real.

    In the wardrobe mirror, he could see his red eyes lightened only by the lamp next to the bed, the tears mixed with the sweat he had shed while sleeping.

   It had been a while since he had this kind of dream, they were much more frequent when he was little, and he used to wake up from them in the same way: all sweaty and hot, as if he had really just come out of a fire.

    These dreams weren’t always the same. Sometimes his parents would show up in them, other times he was all alone. Even his best friend at that time appeared in some of them, although he wasn’t even there that night, Tim never saw him again after that day.

   In some cases, the dream was more faithful to reality as he watched his house burn without being able to do a thing; in others, he stayed inside the house and died with them. And, in one particular dream he had years ago, he was the one who caused the death of his own parents.

    But the dreams always had the same thing in common: they always started with him waking up in his room, consumed by flames.

    Just like it was that day.

    Even after years, he still wondered how it all started. The main suspicion was that one of the candles his mother left for praying had fallen to the floor during the night, but he could not even tell the police if that was a possibility at the time.

    Had his mother really left a candle that day? Was the gas on the cooker turned on? He didn’t remember feeling a strange smell, but he was too young to differentiate such things, especially with everything that was happening at the time. In the end, it had been decided that the fire was accidental, and he agreed to it, there was no reason to think otherwise.

    Besides, it was rather too late for that. Nothing they could discover would bring his parents back in any way.

    Tim closed his eyes and tried to sleep again, turning over in front of his lamp, wondering if he could get more sleep before waking up to go to school.

…

Tim came home from school tired that day. He barely managed to pay attention in class, but luckily his teacher had not noticed; If not, this would not be the first time he had been feruled for his daydreams.

    His mind had been elsewhere for these past few weeks, the truth was that there were many things happening in the moment, things much more important than a simple English class at school.

    Sitting on the sofa in the small room upstairs, Tim listened in silence to the murmurs from the hallway below. The already recognizable deep voice of Dr. Evans greeted the butler and the other employees in the entrance hall before going upstairs. He didn’t notice the boy’s presence in the other room and quickly entered Uncle John’s bedroom as soon as he went up the stairs, letting Tim see the inside for only a few seconds until the door closed completely.

    Occasionally, Dr. Evans was accompanied by a nurse, but most of the time he was alone. Tim never heard him say more than a ‘Good afternoon’ or a ‘Good night’, he never stayed that long to drink some tea or to have something to eat; he would just arrive, go to his uncle’s room to examine him, and then leave, Tim never found out exactly what was going on inside that room.

    The boy got up from the sofa and went to the hallway, checking to see if Mr. Baker, the butler, was nearby. Seeing that no one was there, he stopped in front of his uncle’s bedroom door and lay down on the ground, trying to look under the thin space between the door and the floor, but all he could see was the shadow of Dr. Evans’s shoes, his uncle’s feet was nowhere in sight.

    It is not that Tim have not already guessed that, he didn’t need to be very smart to know that at this point, Uncle John wasn’t even able to get out of bed anymore.

    He stood up quickly when he heard Mr. Baker’s footsteps approaching, making him return to the room he was. 4 in the afternoon was normally the time he started practicing the piano, but now that his uncle could no longer train him, he did it by himself.

    He remembered perfectly the day he had his first class. It had only been a few months since he had moved there, he barely exchanged a word with his great-uncle; He went out at night and during the day he stayed in his office reading mainly medical books from his time in the profession. He seemed like he was always busy with something, though he had already retired a few years ago. It was as if there were no children in the house.

    Until one day, mostly due to his boredom, Tim decided to try playing the piano the uncle had in the living room.

    Uncle John was a music lover, it was the only reason he turned on the radio every day during his afternoon tea, and when he saw his great-nephew randomly pressing the piano keys, he decided he was going to teach him, he insisted that he would learn. Uncle John used to always give him lessons after school, helping him read old sheet music he had saved from the times when his hands were still good to play.

    At first, Tim found the lessons to be quite tiresome, mainly due to his uncle who looked like he was going to throw the piano on him with every note he missed, but as the days went by and he got better and better, these moments became rare. He didn’t know if it was because of his clear improvement or if it meant that his uncle had finally grew up to like him.

    He sat on the bench and stretched his hands, searching the folder for his favourite song: Vivaldi’s Spring. It was one of the first he had learned, its piano version was one of the easiest he knew, but it was the one he liked to play the most because of its high notes and the happiness it gave him. He didn’t even need to look at the sheet music anymore, but he always left it open as a precaution.

    When he was younger, piano lessons were the only moments of the day that made him forget a little about reality: forget how much he missed having a friend to play with, forget he was now an orphan and had no one but his uncle. Forget about the fire.

    And now, Tim was playing it again. He played not to think about what was happening in that bedroom.

    Faster, his mind said. Play faster, louder, don’t let it get into your mind.

    You won’t be alone again.

    Play it, play it, play it.

    “Tim.”

    Mr. Baker’s voice snapped him out of his trance, making him stop abruptly. The butler was standing at the entrance of the room with both hands behind his body. His face was serious, more than he usually was.

    “Your uncle wants to talk to you” he said.

    Tim didn’t know if he was hearing well. His uncle never called him during the entire time he was sick, he was the one who always insisted upon seeing him.

    “About what?”

    “He didn’t say, he just asked me to call you.”

    Tim tried to read the butler’s face, he wanted to know what it meant. Mr. Baker tried to appear as neutral as possible, but Tim understood that it must be an important matter, one that he didn’t yet know if he was adequately prepared for.

    “Mr. Baker, what will happen to my uncle?” He asked. The butler sighed, he looked at him as if he was a puppy that had just been abandoned on the street.

    “I don’t know, sir. Nobody knows.” He rubbed Tim’s head and then rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Go and see what he wants, will you?”

    Tim nodded, turning away from him to go to the bedroom. He raised his fist to knock on the door, he was a little scared of what he would see behind it, but opened it anyway.

    His uncle was in bed when he arrived, there was only him in the room now, Tim had not even noticed the moment the doctor left. The pile of pillows on his back made him almost sit on the bed, the thin blanket only covered him up to his waist.

    His face was a little pale, but it litted up when he smiled upon seeing his great-nephew standing there.

    “Timothy, come in!” he said.

    Tim walked through the door and stopped in front of him, many things were going through his head. Uncle John sighed before starting to speak, the air entered his nostrils with difficulty.

    “Did you have a good day at school?” he asked. Tim looked at him uncertain, he didn’t expect the conversation to be about that, not among many other things.

    “Yes...”

    “And have you had your piano practice today?”

    “I-I have, I played a little…”

    “Good, very good, I’m happy to hear.”

    Tim remained silent, in hopes his uncle was going to add something more.

    “But… this is not the only reason you called me here, is it?” he decided to ask.

    “No, it is not.” He let out another big sigh. “Please sit down.”

    Tim sat on the edge of the bed, paying attention to what he was going to say next.

    “I know I wasn’t the… best of uncles to you.” he began. “I never had any children, and after your parents died, I… well, I tried the best I could. I hope it was enough.”

    “Yes, it was, uncle. You were.” Tim tried to comfort him.

    “I know I told you before I would be fine, but I need to be honest with you, Tim. You are not a little boy anymore, I know you will understand” He paused. “The truth is… I don’t think I have much time.”

    “Please don’t talk like that,” Tim pleaded, approaching him.

    “You are a good boy, I am sorry if I didn’t pay you as much attention as I should have, especially at the beginning.” Uncle John touched the hair in his head. “Your father would be proud of you if he saw you now.”

    His eyes started to water but the boy quickly wiped them away. He didn’t want to cry like a baby, but hearing him talk like that took away all his hope.

   The way he said it, it sounded like a farewell speech.

   “Now listen” John continued. “The main reason I called you here is because I want you to see something.”

    “What is it?” asked Tim. He didn’t expect there would be something more to the conversation, what could be so important that needed to be said now?

    John turned his face to cough once more before speaking:

    “I never showed this to almost anyone, I kept this a secret for years, so I hope you keep it that way too, can you do that for me?”

    Tim just nodded in agreement, preparing himself for whatever would come.

    “All right then” he said, clearing his throat. “What I am going to do now may seem very strange, but please don’t be alarmed.”

    Uncle John threw back the covers. His shins were white, but they were whitening even more, they seemed to be transparent. Or rather, Tim realised now: his whole body was transparent, he was sure he could see the mattress through him.

    He thought he was going mad, even rubbed his eyes to see if that illusion would go away, but it wasn’t his vision playing tricks on him. In a second, his uncle was no longer there.

    How was that possible? What was it that he had done? It could be some magic trick, but he was right there in front of him, he had not entered a magic box or anything of the sort.

    Tim was startled when the blanket lifted. It got up on its own, standing still in the air as if someone was holding it up with their fingers, and then it suddenly fell back onto the bed.

    Just then, Uncle John reappeared. He was the same as before, as if he had never left that position.

    “Where… where did you go?” asked the boy, also pale, but with disbelief.

    “Nowhere, I was here the whole time.”

    “B-but you… I saw you disappear, you weren’t here a second ago, how did you do that trick?”

    “It is not a trick, child.” he said. Tim scratched the back of his head.

    “I don’t understand, how…”

    “Very few know about this, but in this world, there are people… that are different, with special abilities.” he said. “Mine, for example, allows me to be invisible for a while.”

    Tim looked at him for a few seconds, hoping to see something on his face that suggested he was joking, but he remained serious.

    “How is this possible?”

    “I wish I knew. I discovered this ability when I was a child, even younger than you.” He let out another sigh with difficulty. “I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how and why, but I don’t think everything in this world can be explained.”

    Tim now had many questions to ask. How many people also had those skills? Could it be that he already met one and he didn’t realise it? Are people born like this or do they acquire these powers later? And if it is something you’re born with, there would be a more important question: Could it be hereditary?

    Even with so many questions, he remained silent, he didn’t want to force his uncle to say more than he should, not in the state he was in.

    When John called him to talk, he never imagined it would be for something like this.

    “However, during my youth, I met a woman” he continued. “She is a normal person, she doesn’t have any of these abilities, but she knows a lot about the subject. She has an orphanage only with children who have these abilities and, if I am no longer here, I want you to be in her care.”

    “Stop saying that, you are going to get better, you have to get better.”

    “I have faith that I will, but if something happens…”

    “You have to get better!” He insisted. “Because, if you don’t, then I… I…” his voice was shaky. He could not finish saying it, he swore he would never think about it, but the idea of being alone again was more than he could bear.

    It was frightening.

    “Trust me,” John tried to comfort him. “I have known her for many years, I cannot think of anyone better to be with you.” He then added: “But God willing that won’t be necessary, I will be fine by the time spring comes.”

…

Weeks passed in a hurry, the first spring flowers had already bloomed, but Uncle John showed no signs of improvement.

    Tim was afraid of losing him, he slept with him in his room for a few days, he even prayed a few times, even though he had promised himself years ago that he would no longer trust God to save anyone, since he had not done the same to his parents.

    He tried to believe, but despite all his prayers, weeks before he turned thirteen, God took his great-uncle John, the only person he had left. It was a Friday afternoon, he had just returned from school when one of this uncle’s staff informed him. He had died of a heart attack.

    Now, as he sat in the backseat of the car on the way to his funeral, Tim could only think that he was the unluckiest person in the world.

    Why, of all the other people on earth, had this happened to him? He had lost his mother, his father, now his uncle, what else was there for him to lose? He had nothing else, no one else.

    And nothing could get this out of his head.

    That it was his fault.

    If his parents hadn’t been his parents, if he had gone directly to an orphanage instead of being under the guardianship of his great-uncle, perhaps none of them would have died.

    It was like a curse.

    And it was all his fault.

    He placed the bouquet of flowers in front of Uncle John’s tombstone, his eyes watering. He had already dried his tears minutes ago, but when he saw his uncle’s name engraved there, everything became very real.

    He was afraid of what would happen from now on. He could not stay at his uncle’s house, he was still a minor, and until he turned eighteen, he would have to live in that orphanage.

    He had not even had time to deal with all of this, things were happening too quickly, and right after the funeral he was already on the train with an escort that his uncle’s lawyer arranged. He knew where he was going now, Uncle John told him he would be in good hands at that orphanage, but he didn’t know what to expect.

    Especially knowing that those children weren’t normal.

    They were special. Magic. Or something like that.

    Who knows what they would be capable of doing.

    They got off the train as soon as it stopped in Swinton and went by car the rest of the way. The man who accompanied him told him the town they were going to, and coincidentally or not, that was exactly the name of the town where he was born and lived until he was eight years old, until the fire that killed his parents.

    But it made sense, Uncle John had mentioned before that he had lived there for a while when he was younger, that must’ve been when he met the orphanage owner. Even so, Tim felt strange being there.

    The place that for a long time he used to call home.

    Tim looked out the car window as he passed through the stone streets. He could recognise some of the places, like a small square, the church, and a sweet store that he sometimes went to with his parents. It was still there, in the same place, as if nothing had changed.

    The car crossed the street and took another road. The property was on the other side of the village entrance, close to the border and of a pine forest that surrounded it. The car was travelling along a dirt road, there were many pine trees around it and some simple houses, just like the ones in his neighborhood when his parents were alive. They might even be close to where he lived, he could not say for sure, but thinking about it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

    The car continued moving and he soon saw a high stone wall on his left side. That could only be the orphanage wall, he thought, and that proved to be true as the car entered the gate. Right above it there was a sign saying: ‘Green Fields Orphanage’ and below there was a ‘welcome’ in a smaller font.

    The house wasn’t as big as he thought. Not big for an orphanage, that is, but it had a pretty decent size for an ordinary house. An old lady – probably the lady his uncle said to be the owner – was standing in front of the house with the children. They were lined up in an upright posture, one next to the other, ordered by height.

    Tim got out of the car and the driver passed through him with his luggage, taking them into the house. The old lady addressed to him:

    “Hello, welcome to our orphanage! I’m Margaret Parsons and these are my children, we are happy to welcome you here,” she said. “I imagine John had already talked about me, I could not believe it when I received the news that he passed away. I’m very sorry.”

    Tim stood still. He was waiting for her to continue talking, but she stopped, and now he didn’t know what to say in response.

    When she saw that Tim would not say anything, the lady continued:

    “What’s your name, darling?”

    “Tim…Timothy Griffin,” his voice came out half-heartedly.

    “Nice to meet you, Timothy, welcome to Green Fields Orphanage!” The children exclaimed in unison, they seemed to have rehearsed it beforehand.

    Tim observed them for some time. The tallest and older one was a boy with glasses and brown hair, he was a few inches taller than him and looked a little intimidating. Next to him was a blonde boy, he kept fidgeting his trousers for an unknown reason. Next to him was a red-haired boy who wouldn’t stop smiling, two girls of practically the same size, a little boy with blond hair and, weirdly, black rubber gloves in his hands; and finally, the last in the row was a little girl with black hair, she looked no more than five years old.

    When Uncle John talked about the orphanage, it was difficult not to imagine the children as characters from a circus or horror books. Tim thought he would see someone with two heads, feet turned upside down, horns or something similar.

    But now, looking at the children in this manner, there was nothing weird about them – at least not in the supernatural sense. They all looked like perfectly normal human beings.

    The bedrooms were on the top floor, they were separate for boys and girls, and had practically the same size and same musty smell. The beds were arranged next to each other and there were exactly eight in each room, although from what he saw at the entrance, he doubted there were that many children in that house.

    His luggage were placed on an empty bed against the window wall. There was no one in the room at that time, all the children were downstairs, the day was ending and it would soon be dinner time, but Tim didn’t want to go down there, he didn’t know if he wanted to talk to any of them at that moment.

    He wished he could stay in that room, lie in bed and sleep, sleep for as long as he could until it comes the day when he would leave. He wanted to be able to wake up in his uncle’s house, in his room with his things, he wanted to see the view of a red oak tree he had from his bedroom for the last time, he never thought that one day this was something he would miss.

    Or better yet, he wished he could wake up in the past, in his old house with his parents, as if everything he has experienced so far was nothing more of a nightmare. His mother would comfort him like she always did, peck him on the cheek, maybe tell him a story, and everything would be fine.

    But that was his reality now. His parents died, his uncle died, there are people in this world with special abilities, and he was in an orphanage full of them.

    And if he stayed in that room, if he let himself be overcome by the desire to do nothing else until he dies, that would be all he would think about.

    That would certainly drive him mad.

    Before leaving the room, Tim looked through the window curtains. The man who had been with him since he left his uncle’s house was still there in the front yard. Within minutes, his car passed through the gate and disappeared behind the walls of the orphanage.

    It was for real now, no one would come for him again.

    This was his new home, his new family – if he could even call them that.

    The third one he had in just twelve years of his life.